


sweet as honey, easy as pie

by canistakahari



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Banter, Blackwatch Era, Gen, Honeypot, Mission Fic, Pre-Canon, Suits, and no actual mission, this is all mission prep
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-27
Updated: 2020-02-27
Packaged: 2021-02-28 03:40:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,203
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22917109
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/canistakahari/pseuds/canistakahari
Summary: Gabe isn't entirely sure Jesse is ready for this undercover mission. Jesse proves him wrong.
Comments: 3
Kudos: 44





	sweet as honey, easy as pie

**Author's Note:**

> well. this has certainly been sitting untouched in my WIPs since [checks notes] december 2016. time to yeet this out of my unfinished fics folder once and for all.

The kid cleans up well, Gabe’s gotta give him that.

The suit needs a bit of tailoring around Jesse’s narrow hips and his broadening shoulders, but it fits well. Jesse has clearly never worn one in his life.

“What are you, an animal?” Gabe says, crossing his arms over his chest. “Tuck in your damn shirt.”

“Huh?” Jesse looks up from where he’s trying to figure out the cufflinks, babyish face shaved smooth of the usual half-growth of stubble. “Oh. I’m gettin’ there, boss. Hold up. What do I do with these?” 

Gabe holds in a sigh, stepping forward to do it for him. “You need to pull your shirt sleeves down first. They don’t go in the jacket.”

Jesse raises his head, levelling a raised eyebrow and a gaze at Gabe that is half-confusion, half-exasperation, and wholly lost. “Right.”

“Tuck in your shirt,” repeats Gabe, with rapidly diminishing patience. “And give me those.”

Jesse hands over the cufflinks with palpable relief. “You can keep ‘em,” he says, undoing his fly and pushing both hands into his pants to tuck in his dress shirt. Gabe turns away as Jesse very obviously adjusts himself, grabbing a belt for him as he waits for him to finish. The damn kid does everything backwards. 

“There. All tucked in, prim and proper.” Jesse’s voice is vaguely mocking as he spreads his hands in a _see?_ gesture. 

Gabe holds out the belt. “Proud of you,” he says dryly. He looks Jesse up and down as the kid feeds the belt through the loops. “I take it back. _McCree_.”

“What now?” huffs Jesse, glancing up at Gabe through his lashes. He’s definitely annoyed. _Good_.

Gabe is glad he’s grating on Jesse’s nerves as much as Jesse is grating on his. He hardens his expression, aiming for withering disapproval, and is gratified by the pink flush that creeps up Jesse’s throat, settling over his freckled cheeks. 

“Uh,” he mumbles, satisfyingly cowed. “What, um, I mean, yes, sir?”

“What the fuck are you wearing on your feet?”

Jesse’s head swings down, eyes dropping, like he doesn’t know what Gave is talking about. “My boots, sir.”

Gabe makes a contemptuous noise. “Yeah. Your boots, cowboy. You were given dress shoes.”

“Don’t you think this looks better?” Jesse says, aiming what he thinks is a charming grin at Gabe. What he doesn’t seem to realise, ever, is that the wheedling expression usually just makes Gabe wants to smack him on the back of the head. “Gives the whole getup some flair. Don’t want me blendin’ in, do we? You said yourself, I gotta stand out. Mark’s gotta want me the second he sees me.”

“And you think those ratty boots are going to be the winning detail,” Gabe says flatly. “You jingle when you walk. It is not an alluring sound.” 

Jesse sets his jaw stubbornly. He’s not going to disobey but he _is_ going to be an argumentative little shit about it for as long as he can get away with. “What do you know about _allure_ , jefe?”

This time, Gabe does give Jesse a little smack on the back of the head, just to hear him yelp. “I’ve been doing this longer than you’ve been alive, McCree. Ditch the boots, pull down your shirtsleeves, and quit making me think you can’t do this.”

“I can,” Jesse retorts immediately. He’s kicking off his cowboy boots before Gabe has to think about telling him twice. 

“We’ve only got one shot,” Gabe reminds him. “When he comes in, you have to be the first thing he sees in that room. If we can’t get his attention, then we’ll have to scrap the job and start again. I’ll let you explain that to the Strike Commander when I put in the invoice for all the ops planning we spent the last six weeks wasting. Intel, blueprints, manpower, firepower… Hell, McCree, you have any idea how much a suit like this costs?”

Gabe catches Jesse’s eye roll in his peripheral vision as the kid turns away to put on his shoes. “More’n I make in a year. I heard you the first ten times. I got it, boss. I ain’t gonna fuck up. I’ll charm that playboy just like we planned.”

“And the boots stay here,” Gabe says firmly. 

Jesse straightens up, shaking his shaggy hair out of his eyes. He tugs his shirtsleeves down and holds his wrists out to Gabe. “When you say you’ve been doing ‘this’ longer than I’ve been alive, do you mean soldiering or seducing rich playboys?”

“Wouldn’t you like to fucking know?” Gabe folds Jesse’s sleeves, inserting the cufflinks and securing them. “I’ll let you mull that one over.”

Jesse cocks his head, watching the deft motions of Gabe’s fingers attentively. Gabe won’t need to show him again. “You ever done this before, though?”

“What? A honeypot? Sure,” says Gabe easily. Let the kid’s overactive imagination take that and run wild. Gabe’s not about to give him details. 

“Would you be doing it now?” asks Jesse. A grin spreads over his face, playful. “You know. If you weren’t so old.”

Gabe isn’t rising to the bait. Instead, he takes the loose tie that’s dangling around Jesse’s neck and makes a face. “Do up the last button,” he commands, flicking Jesse in the chin. “Can’t do this yourself, either?”

“Oh, sure, had plenty of opportunity to get gussied up in formal wear down in the ol’ gorge,” Jesse drawls mockingly. “Always wore a tie when we was runnin’ guns. Of course I don’t know how to do it!” There’s the barest sharp edge in Jesse’s voice, a glint in his eyes. The kid’s come a long way since Gabe and Jack plucked him out of Deadlock over a year ago now, but needling at him long enough will get his hackles up like a cornered dog. 

Plenty of canine-like qualities in Jesse McCree, if he’s thinking about it. He’s as loyal as they come, for one thing. 

Gabe’s mouth twists into a wry smile. He fixes Jesse’s collar and brushes his hair out of his face. “I’ll only show you once,” he says mildly, looping the tie around his neck. 

Jesse settles, dark eyes fixing on Gabe’s hands. 

“Thanks, boss,” says Jesse, quiet, when Gabe is finished. 

“You look halfway respectable,” says Gabe. He ruffles Jesse’s hair brusquely and steps back. “Stand up straight. You need to be more mindful of the way you carry yourself. No slouching, no wide motions. Don’t… drawl.”

Jesse blinks, face slack with confusion. “What?”

“You heard me,” says Gabe. “You walk and move the same way you talk. Drop the drawl. Tighten up. This needs precision, McCree.”

“Huh,” says Jesse, clearly mulling this over. 

What Gabe really wants him to do is create a character. Even as Gabe adjusts Jesse’s jacket, hands on the lapels, he can see him straightening his spine, pulling back his shoulders, paying attention to his posture for once. 

“Okay,” says Jesse. “I got this, boss. I’ll ride that playboy’s dick like he’s a goddamn stallion.”

Gabe doesn’t succeed in hiding his choked laughter.

oOo

“It was a… you know, metaphor,” says Jesse. He’s leaning over his plate, making an effort to keep his voice down in the crowded cafeteria.

“It was a simile, actually, but go on,” Gabe murmurs mildly, spearing a steamed carrot with his fork. 

“I’m not _actually_ going to ride his dick, right? I mean… right?” Jesse blinks, apparently catching himself off-guard with uncertainty. “I meant, like, buttering him up, you know? Stroking his ego, not his dick. Boss, do I gotta have sex with this guy?”

“He might see your underwear,” says Gabe, chewing slowly. “So wear a clean pair. No, McCree. You are not expected to actually sleep with the mark. Frankly, I’m disturbed it took you this long to ask.”

Jesse’s eyes narrow. “I woulda expected it in the mission statement. You testing me again?”

“You never read.”

“I read plenty.”

“Comic books. How do I know you don’t just look at the pictures?”

Jesse snorts, leaning back in his chair and pushing away his empty plate. His cheeks are a little pink, the flush creeping down his throat. “Might need to kiss him, though.”

Gabe pauses, lifting his gaze from his plate to look steadily at Jesse. “That part _was_ in the mission statement.”

“Yeah. I know.” 

“Got a problem with it?”

Jesse hesitates. “Don’t rightly know.” There’s a pause, while Jesse licks his lips and runs his fingers through his hair, gaze darting around the room before settling back on Gabe. “I’m no prude but I wouldn’t say I’m an expert in kissing. Done it, sure.”

Gabe chuckles, careful to keep it fond and not mocking. “Nobody’s asking you to be an expert in kissing, McCree. You’re just his type. Play up the inexperience and he’ll eat it up.”

“Eat what up?” 

Somehow, neither of them noticed Fareeha approaching. She pulls out the chair next to Jesse and sits down, face expectant. 

Next to her, Jesse turns red. “My pie,” he says quickly. “M’too full, you have it.” Mournfully, he shoves his plate in front of her. 

Predictably, Fareeha lights up, picking up Jesse’s fork from the table and sawing off a big bite. “Thanks, Jesse.”

Jesse is just weeks shy of his nineteenth birthday and he eats constantly. The kid is never full. Apparently distracting Fareeha with the pie he’s been looking forward to eating all morning is preferable to explaining what they were talking about. 

With a sigh, Jesse slumps in his seat. 

Gabe raises his eyebrows and spreads his hands in a sympathetic shrug.

oOo

“Maybe he’d _like_ cowboys,” Jesse mutters, for what feels like the hundredth time. “Maybe y’all are missing a trick, here, and I shouldn’t waltz in wearing this snooty suit and tie. You ever think of that? I’ll look like every other damn penguin there, and you keep talkin’ about how I gotta _stand out_ , make an impression. At least let me keep my boo—”

“No,” says Gabe. They’ve been stuck in traffic for nearly twenty minutes and Jesse’s been sullen for all of them. Gabe lets his head rest against the window of the limo. They’re going to be… fashionably late, but Gabe hasn’t received confirmation their mark has even arrived yet, so he’s not too worried. 

“You’re stiflin’ me,” accuses Jesse. 

Gabe snorts a laugh despite himself. “I could be strangling you instead.”

Jesse sits up straight, brushing at the sleeve of his pristine suit. “Strangle me with your d—”

“ _McCree_.”

Jesse cackles, adjusting his tie. It’s crooked. Gabe twitches, narrowing his gaze at him, jaw set. The tips of Jesse’s ears go pink. “...What?”

“I said I’d only show you once,” Gabe says firmly, as the traffic around them eases and they pick up speed again.

Jesse gets the hint, reaching up to adjust his tie and collar, tongue darting out to wet his lips. His posture changes subtly, a barely-perceptible shift that has his shoulders squaring, back straight, chin up. He loses the slouch, the _drawl_ Gabe was pestering him about last week, his movements becoming more precise. 

He created a character.

Jesse McCree is an oddity, that’s for sure. 

“I’ve been practicing,” says Jesse. “What do you think, commander?”

Gabe shrugs. “So you _can_ sit up straight. Not sure I’m proud you needed to practice it.”

“No,” says Jesse, rolling his eyes. “You’re not listening to me.”

For a second, Gabe just stares at him. 

“Well, that’s not good,” says Jesse carefully. “Blackwatch commanders need to be observant, don’t they?” 

The smug, smooth tone clicks in Gabe’s head and he snorts, shaking his head. Jesse’s abruptly lost all the cowboy that normally hugs his vowels, and he sounds way too much like Jack for Gabe to be entirely comfortable. 

It makes sense the kid can mimic; he’s had to survive on his own for a very long time, and survivors are adaptable. 

“Which one’s the real Jesse McCree?” says Gabe, offhand. He’s mostly teasing, but Jesse’s expression flickers, almost hunted, before his face smooths out again. 

“Wouldn’t you like to fucking know?” 

This time, Jesse sounds exactly like Gabe. 

They both fall into uncomfortable silence, staring out the windows of the limo. Gabe regrets asking the question. The last thing he wants to do is provoke an existential crisis before a big job like this. Jesse talks big but he rattles easily, still fragile around the edges. 

How much of the kid is actually a carefully constructed facade? Gabe doesn’t like the idea that Jesse is more complex than he originally thought. He had seemed so simple, handcuffed to a chair in Gabe’s interrogation room. A scared, vulnerable kid, staring into a dead-end future of maximum security incarceration. 

How much of himself did he need to build from scratch to survive in Deadlock?

He seems small and simple now, hunching up, eyes avoiding Gabe’s.

“Have you ever even _seen_ a horse?” Gabe finally counters. “Let alone ride one?”

It surprises a laugh out of Jesse. He straightens up, mouth twitching into a familiar grin. “Cowboy’s a state of mind, commander.”

This time, Gabe gives in and cackles, big and broad.

***


End file.
